


Seven Flowers

by corvidkohai



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Post-Advent Children (Compilation of FFVII)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22861177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidkohai/pseuds/corvidkohai
Summary: Nibelheim has an old superstition: any girl that pick seven different flowers in complete silence on Midsommar night and sleeps with them beneath her pillow will dream of her future husband. Tifa tries it one year.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Sephiroth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78





	Seven Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This legend is borrowed from Nordic culture!

There was an old, old Nibel legend that said any girl could dream of her future husband, if she followed the right steps. On Midsommar, she had to pick seven different flowers during the night in complete silence and place them beneath her pillow before she slept. In her sleep, she was supposed to dream of her future husband. 

Tifa had never put stock in such things. She was too practical for the superstitions Nibel culture was rife with. She could do things with the traditional medicine and herbalism—she had calmed many of Denzel and Marlene’s stomach aches with mint tea—but the rest she had little use for. The only use it had, in fact, was entertaining the kids. She and Cloud did their best to keep the culture alive, being the last two remnants of the town, and that sometimes meant indulging in the useless superstitions. 

They practiced the old holidays to preserve them, taught their practices to Denzel and Marlene because, well, decisions about Denzel’s care were between her and Cloud, and if he was involved, Marlene wanted to be. Marlene liked the superstitions and lore, and Denzel liked all of it because Cloud did. Everyone could see the nostalgic look in his eyes whenever they talked about it, and Denzel would do a lot to chase that wistful look on Cloud’s face. 

That was what led to Tifa and Marlene in the park one Midsommar night, picking their seven different flowers. She had told Marlene about it and she had insisted that they try, especially when Tifa admitted to never having done so herself. She was just planning on taking Marlene to the park to let her pick her own flowers, but Marlene had insisted long before they left that she participate. 

Tifa put the flowers beneath her pillow under Marlene’s watchful eye, before watching the girl do the same and then crawl into bed. She didn’t bother removing them before falling asleep herself—it wasn’t like it was going to work anyway. 

That was exactly what she told herself when she woke up. It hadn’t worked. It hadn’t worked, it hadn’t worked, it hadn’t worked—it  _ hadn’t.  _ She was frantic as she told herself as much, her heart racing, beating a rapid tattoo against her chest. She pulled at her hair until it hurt and suckedin a shuddering breath just to blow it out slow. It hadn’t work. She had dreamed—oh, how she’d dreamed. But it couldn’t have been of her future husband. It couldn’t have been, because of  _ he _ ever laid a hand on her that wasn’t in violence, she’d break his neck. She didn’t think that would end things, necessarily, but surely if she kept doing as much, it would be difficult for him to get a proposal out. 

Her dream had been familiar, one she’d had a thousand times before—or nearly, at least. Of fire and flame, of screams and shrieks, of heat against her skin and heat inside her chest as she was run through. There was the acrid tang of mako from inside the reactor that burned her nose and throat as much as the smoke had. She woke with the scent still in her nostrils. 

She saw Sephiroth around every corner. Every outline of a home ablaze held him hidden in doorframes and on top of the shingles. Every tree and boulder she passed on the mountain held him in its shadow. Every tank in the reactor held his face peeking out. 

Until finally, she ran up the reactor stairs after him, screaming her fury, just to be skewered. He held her aloft on the blade, taking a moment to consider her. His expression was indulgent, nearly fond—his smile wistful. He took her chin in his hand, and the grip was feather-light instead of bruising. 

“I’m going to take everything from you,” he promised in a voice like silk. “Even your hate.”

He released her chin and flicked her artfully from his sword, sending her flying down the staircase. As she slammed into the floor she bolted upright in bed. 

It hadn’t worked. It hadn’t worked, it hadn’t worked, it hadn’t worked—it  _ hadn’t.  _


End file.
